


side two, track one

by deadlybride



Series: double-groove vinyl [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After the debacle with the pearl, Sam and Dean take a day to decompress.





	side two, track one

Mom bails that same night, with her eyes still puffed-red from crying, her face drawn in haggard lines that make her look the age she ought to be. _I'm sorry_ , she says, voice thin, _I just—_ and Sam nods but doesn't say anything. He wants to say sorry, too, for different reasons, but it's not like it will do any good. What's done is done. He goes up the stairs with her and watches her climb into that battered truck, and watches her curl her hands around the steering wheel and bend her forehead down to it and watches her shoulders shake, and he goes back inside because no one should have to be seen going through that, especially not for the second time.

Castiel's been hovering, not sure what to do. He's still sitting at the map table when Sam comes down the stairs. "Where's Dean?" Sam says, to forestall Cas asking any other, harder questions, and Cas's face is set in a kind of still worry but he only says, "His room, I think," and, yeah. That makes sense. Sam drags his hand over his face, scraping over the growth on his jaw. He can't even imagine the nightmares he's going to have tonight, which is saying something. Life goes on, though, until it can't, and that's not an option tonight or for a long time, so he says to the ground, "Sounds like a good plan," and gives Cas a smile even if it doesn't feel too genuine, and he goes out down the halls and walks past Dean's door and doesn't do more than just touching the wood as he passes, and then he closes his own door behind himself and crawls fully-clothed onto the bed and shuts his eyes, and sleeps like that.

In the morning, it doesn't feel as gutting. He wakes up before his alarm. If he had nightmares he doesn't remember them, which as far as he's concerned means they didn't happen, or at least certainly don't count if they did. He's kind of cold and his belt is digging into his stomach, and he turns onto his back, and looks at the ceiling, and it just—it doesn't feel like he thought it would. Dad's face, grey beard and a shorter haircut than he remembers. He must have trimmed it up sometime while Sam was away at Stanford, let it grow out again. What a strange, jagged kind of relief to think of him and see the man from yesterday, rather than the one on the hospital floor. The pearl didn't change a thing, except for the things that it did.

Cas is still hanging around when Sam comes out to make coffee. He looks the same as he always does. "Dean up?" Sam says, like that's even a possibility, and Castiel to his credit does huff. Too much time around people, he's learned humor.

"What will you do now?" Cas says. He follows Sam into the kitchen, waits while Sam does his boring, ordinary human chores. "We still need to find a way to safely remove Michael from Dean's body."

"I know," Sam says. Like it's not what he's thinking about, every time he's awake. Like looking into Dean's eyes doesn't make his back tingle with anticipatory terror. He flicks the switches on the coffee machine and stands over it while it starts to hiss and bubble, heating up. His head hurts.

In his pocket, his phone alarm goes off, and he shuts off the sound through his jeans and takes a deep breath. They didn't have any plans, today, before everything got derailed. Just cataloging all of those strange artifacts, stolen from who knows how many hunters and collectors and witches throughout the years. How many people had to die for them, he wonders. Ghosts, clinging in every corner to a past that can't be left behind.

The coffeemaker starts dribbling and Sam swaps the pot for one of the mugs, speeding up the process of getting into his veins. "Cas," he says, and has to pause for a second. He watches the level on the mug rise and Cas is patient, waiting. "I don't, uh. I don't think we're going to—work on that, today." Silence, again. Sam picks up the mug when it's full and swaps the pot back in, only loses a couple of sizzling drips to the burner. When he turns around Cas looks sympathetic, as much as he can be, and Sam sits down at the kitchen table. His shoulders hurt, for some reason.

"I'll go and meet Jack," Cas says, after a minute. "He is with Maggie, I believe. I can help them finish the hunt they're on and then we will return to the bunker. It may take a few days."

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, nods. Sometimes, Cas is a really good friend. They don't reciprocate enough.

Another two hours, before Dean emerges. Sam's taken a shower, and two aspirin. The dusty shards of the pearl have been burned. He's waiting in the kitchen when Dean comes in, brutal shadows under his eyes. Looks like he hasn't slept at all. He looks at Sam and then away, and says, "Sleep well?" Like a joke.

"Kind of," Sam says, honest. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Dean says back. He pours his own mug and then comes and sits down across from Sam, sinking down slow like an old man. His elbows on the table, his shoulders popped high around his ears, defensive enough to shield him from a blow. They do keep coming. He just holds the mug in both hands, looking down into it without drinking. "Guess everyone's gone."

"Just you and me," Sam agrees, quiet to match Dean's voice. Dean nods, rubs his thumb around the mug's red rim. There are lines around his eyes that seem new, to Sam, though of course they must have crept up without him noticing. A little grey in his hair, though not as much as there is in Sam's, as Dean has been fond of pointing out the last few years. He still has those freckles on his knuckles, and in the fine shell of his ears, and his eyes are—the same. Almost the same. What's changed is what's behind them.

"Can I ask you a question?" Sam says, and Dean flicks a look up to him, his eyes narrowing just a touch. Sam takes a deep breath but—just then, he can't ask, not really. He drains his coffee, instead, and puts the mug down. "Do you want to—let's go. Let's get out, go for a drive."

"Roadtrip?" Dean says, frowning. "I ain't taking you to Wally World, you're too tall for the rides."

Sam knocks his knee into Dean's, under the table. "Come on. I need to stretch my legs. We can do the cataloging when we get back."

"You can do the cataloging," Dean says, but he looks into Sam's eyes, and licks his lips, and then nods. Sam's shoulders relax, somehow. He didn't even know he was holding the tension.

They have to get gas first, at the co-op in town. Nothing's different there. Proof, if they needed it, that things went back to the way they were. Dean points them west and Sam settles back into his seat, and lines up the first four Zeppelin albums to take them through the cold empty farms, and then the bare land, and the little inconsequential towns all the way along 36 across the north edge of Kansas. Around _Going to California_ they stop in Idalia, Colorado, for gas and food. It's almost smaller than Lebanon, but they've got a bar and a real restaurant, so comparatively it practically counts as urban.

Two beers, two burgers. They sit by the window, the matronly waitress reading a book at the register and ignoring them, and Dean picks up his beer and holds it out for Sam to click his bottle against, and then takes a long, deep swallow. Sam watches him, for a few seconds, before he sips at his own. Lunch on the road, some town they've never been to and probably won't ever be through again, unless something very bad starts happening to the folks who live here. What does it say about the kind of people they are, that this is their comfort place.

"What did you and Dad talk about?" he says. Away from the golden light of the bunker, it feels easier to ask. Dean puts his burger down, swallows his bite. Sam shrugs at the look Dean gives him. "You know, I was thinking. You aren't that much younger now than he was then."

"You calling me old?" Dean says, and Sam smiles at him, just to be annoying. Dean rolls his eyes, wipes his mouth with the paper napkin. "Yeah, funny." He licks his lips, bites them between his teeth, and Sam feels his smile get smaller. "Nothing, really. I mean, what—we got him caught up, and then Mom was there, and there wasn't—it wouldn't have mattered. The stuff I—"

He shakes his head, takes another swallow of beer. Another customer comes in and the waitress bustles up, gets them menus. Little patter under the soft-rock station playing. "He wanted to talk to me," Sam says. Dean's eyes jump up to his and Sam laughs, sort of. "Yeah, I don't know. First time for everything, I guess." Dean snorts, and sits back in his chair, crumpling the napkin restlessly in his free hand. He's watching Sam, though, really listening, and Sam doesn't know how to say it. How something tangled up, some old weird wound, has eased. "Do you think we made the right call?" he says, instead. Dean frowns. "I know, we—but isn't it… I don't know. Selfish?"

Dean doesn't take any time to think about it. "Maybe. Yeah." Sam raises his eyebrows and Dean taps his knuckles on the linoleum table. "Do I wish Dad could be alive, that him and Mom could be together? That we could have—whatever, Sunday lunch every week, back in Lawrence? 'Course I do." He leans forward, suddenly, over the table, and his eyes slide away from Sam's, down to his chest. "But there's some deals, some wishes, the trade-off isn't worth it."

Sam chews the inside of his lip. He nods, and Dean nods too, and stands up abruptly to pay the bill. The waitress dimples at him, round-faced and cheery, and Sam sits back and watches him. His hands. The corner of smile as he flirts absently with the waitress, second-nature kindness.

They pile into the car and drive again. Pointed a little more north this time, and Sam still doesn't know where Dean's headed but it doesn't really matter. The sun's coming in the windows, warm on his right shoulder. He slouches down, spreads his knees out wide so he still sort of fits, watches the road slide past through the windshield. Dean's steering with two fingers, his other arm stretched out over the back of the seat. They're on Houses of the Holy now and Sam sighs reflexively when _The Crunge_ comes on—it was Dean's favorite song for about two months when Sam was fifteen and he's heard it enough times to want to go back in time and kill Robert Plant—and Dean tugs his hair, tweaks hard enough that Sam flinches. He's smiling, though, when Sam looks over, and Sam just shoves at his side through his jacket, grinning too.

Dean wouldn't have gone to hell. Sam wouldn't have followed. There would've been no Ruby, encouraging all his worst impulses until he let out Lucifer. There would've been no Lucifer, and later no Castiel wrecking Heaven, and no Leviathan or Purgatory, and no long year of aching absence, no girl in Kermit. No dog. No nephilim. No furious, other-world archangel, taking what he wanted by manipulation and by force, and no ticking time-bomb sitting somewhere around Dean's heart, ready to wipe him out and take him from Sam, some morning when Sam will wake up and find his world destroyed. But, if Sam was right about how time would have corrected itself, then Dean would have been somewhere else, anyway. Would've been someone else. Sam would have been some person he didn't want to recognize. Not a possibility Dean was willing to consider, not for a minute. Sam puts his knuckles to his lips and listens to the hum of the Impala beneath him, around him, and the track runs out on the song and Dean flips the tape, and it's side two, track one: _Dancing Days_. Sam's always liked this one better.

Jackson Lake. They get there late afternoon, and it's cold as hell still so no one sane is out camping. They stop at a liquor store and get a twelve-pack and a fifth, and then Dean swings through a KFC drive-through for a bucket and cups of the radioactive mashed potatoes—"Shut up," he says, "they're delicious and you know it"—and then they drive out into the park, through the dead grass, the bare trees in between the faithful evergreens. They eat sitting on the hood, looking out at the lake in the dwindling day, and then Dean hauls the cooler out for easy access on the grass and they sit with their shoulders and elbows bumping, drinking companionably in the cold.

Dean's taking nips of the whiskey, in between beers. Sam flicks his fingers and Dean hands it over, leaning in against Sam's shoulder, and a swallow goes down hot—ah, ow—but it sits warmly in his belly once he's through the grimacing stage. He hands it back to Dean and Dean takes it, and rests it on his thigh, and then he says, looking down at the bottle, "What about you?"

Like it's a conversation they've been having for hours. Sam hums, and Dean breathes out a long dragon-smoke breath, hanging in the air. "Do you wish we'd—" He cuts himself off, shakes his head, impatient. "Guess it doesn't matter. We already decided, huh? Little late to be second-guessing, even if he'd agreed to stay."

"Yeah," Sam says. He sits there, Dean's warmth solid all against his side. He hopes Dean doesn't feel too awful about it, when Sam feels… He swallows. "Hey, Dean?"

Dean looks at him, sidelong. Sam sucks in one cheek. In the sunset, a lot of the details of his face are blurred away. The fine lines disappear; the deep ones are deeper. His eyes aren't any color but dull gold and his mouth is a flat line, his lips bitten between his teeth. Sam stands up, takes a few steps away toward the shore. His chest feels tight. "Sammy," Dean says, soft, and Sam runs his hand through his hair, scrubs at the back of his head.

"I'm glad we are who we are," Sam says, out at the lake. "Even with—everything. Selfish or not."

A touch to the small of his back, and he turns, and Dean's there, and he pulls at Sam's shoulders and they're hugging, like that. He bends his head down like he always does, his cold nose against Dean's neck, Dean's hands gripping at his shoulder, low on his back. He slides his hands up Dean's spine and sighs, settles in.

Dean's thumb drags against his shoulder, and he shifts his weight, his thigh pushing against Sam's. Sam slides his hands back down, holding the small of Dean's back, breathes in his smell. Familiar, even through the fast-food grease, and the car. Dean's head turns, and his mouth brushes Sam's neck. The still-lingering warmth in Sam's belly takes a deeper turn.

A breath, and two. Sam pulls back an inch but keeps his hands where they are, and Dean's head drops down to Sam's chest, his shoulders moving as he shakily pulls in air. A moment of hung stillness and Sam drags up an arm, puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck with his thumb brushing the soft edge of his hair, and Dean picks up his head, looks Sam in the eye. Swallows, visibly, but the pinking edge of the sunset doesn't hide the flush in his cheeks, nor the curl of his fingers against Sam's waist. Sam opens his mouth and then thinks, dizzily, that—if ever there were a time that words weren't required, this might be it. They're pressed together, knees and hips, chests, their hands on each other, and no matter the strangeness, the swoop in his gut that feels like danger, he's holding Dean's eyes and he isn't pulling away. He licks his lips and Dean's eyelashes flicker, not quite a blink, and Sam ducks his head, leans in. Their foreheads touch, and his nose brushes Dean's cheek. Cold air between them displaced by the warmth of their mingling breath, and enough space still to pretend they could wedge a crowbar into it and pull away—only Dean's hand creeps up and fists into Sam's flannel, in the middle of his chest, and Sam dips that last inch and presses their lips together.

Warm, is the first stupid thing he thinks. Warm, and so soft, and then Dean's mouth moves against his and there's the brush of stubble against his chin and the world snaps back into place. Dean, Dean—his brother, and he kisses him like he means it, then, tipping for a better angle, sliding his hand up to cup the back of Dean's head, his lips and skin prickling with all the blood that's rushing to his face. No tongue, just the soft wet moving of their mouths together, a buzzing inside Sam's skull like alarm sirens only—only it feels nothing but good, nothing but a strange kind of _at last_ when he'd never, never really—

Dean tugs back, abrupt, and Sam opens his eyes—when did he close them?—to find Dean blinking at him, panic and a faint tremble to his bottom lip. Sam shakes his head, grips Dean's shoulder, and Dean frowns at him but his eyes drop to Sam's mouth, too. His hand comes up, touches Sam's jaw, pets over the side of his head and tucks his hair behind his ear, and an immediate shudder crawls up Sam's spine, shivering out across his skin in a teeth rattling second. Dean turns his face away, eyes scrunching shut like something that's almost pain, and Sam noses against his temple, breathes against his cheek, clutches at his arm—and Dean breathes out and turns back and Sam can kiss him again, catches the beautiful soft curve of his lower lip and then presses him open, licks careful inside, and Dean grips him tight by the waist and opens up, a whine on the edge of the breath he gives up, his hips pressing in against Sam's, and—oh, the curl in Sam's belly gets deeper, stronger. Fuck, he wants—intensely, all of a sudden, like he hasn't wanted anyone in years, in a decade.

He slides his hands down, gets his fingers under jacket, shirt, shirt, to bare warm skin, the smooth plane of Dean's side, his back. He's touched this skin before but not like this, not—knowing, in this new way that's making it hard to keep breathing, keep thinking. Dean's touching him, too, faint points of pressure, on his back, his chest, his stomach, resting there just below Sam's navel, and he scrapes his teeth over Dean's lower lip and then whispers, barely able to voice it— _it's okay—_ and Dean huffs a laugh and says, head tipped down, "I don't know if that's true, Sam."

Rough, uncompromising, but his fingers are still there on Sam's stomach and Sam catches them, curls them together. He leans his temple against Dean's, pushes Dean's hand under his layered shirts, and his skin flinches at first from the cold touch but Dean's hand flattens against his abs, pressed down underneath Sam's. He doesn't—this isn't something he ever thought could happen, would happen. Distant dreams, maybe, the odd jumbling of acquaintance the sleeping brain gropes for; he'd never, ever considered, in the real world, that maybe, one day—

Dean's fingers curl against his belly and he looks up, meets Sam's eyes. There's a bubbling unreality fizzing through Sam's chest but he keeps getting shocked into the concrete, meaty consequence, here. He drags his thumb over Dean's jaw and Dean turns his face away, like it's a bruise Sam's trying to check, but when Sam curls his fingers under he comes back, he turns and lets Sam look at him, straight on. He licks his lips and Sam brushes over the wet left behind there, and Dean's eyes close, and they scrunch shut when Sam fumbles his hand around and brushes the front of Dean's jeans, where—yeah. Yeah, he's hard, or getting there. From this, from them. "Is it bad," Sam starts, pushing his fingers down. God, it's warm. He clears his throat, tries again. "Is it bad if I don't care. I don't care if it's okay."

Dean's mouth has parted, wet. His fingers drag from Sam's stomach to his side, pulling him in. "I don't know," he says, on a breath, and then swallows wet enough to hear it, and then he says, huffing in Sam's face, "Shit, someone could—see us."

There's no one out, not with the sun nearly gone, not with it being barely above freezing out here. "Yeah," Sam says, though, and: "Back seat, come on," and Dean's eyelids slit slow enough that he could be drunk, and he follows Sam's hand on his arm, on his wrist, and they're both too big—god, Sam barely fits back here alone, when he's sleeping—but he scoots in backwards and Dean gets in beside him, closes the door so as to keep the cold out at least a little, and then Sam drags him in and kisses him, hard and real, Dean's hands going into his hair, crushed together in the backseat with Sam's arms around him, feeling him heavy, solid, a weight Sam knows in every particular.

He slides his hand down, palms Dean again, and Dean mutters _fuck_ into his mouth, so startled-hot that Sam's own dick throbs. Tug at Dean's belt and Dean groans, and then says, "Okay, okay," and he reaches down and starts opening up his pants himself, says, "You, too," and Sam blinks and stares at him and then works as fast as he can, unbuckling and unzipping, his dick swelling up the front of his boxer-briefs, and Dean shakes his head, panicky looking again, and Sam slides down on the seat and says, "C'mere," and holds out his hand, and Dean curses inexplicably but he takes Sam's hand and swings a leg over, hits his head on the ceiling immediately. "Ow," he says, and Sam laughs kinda breathless, and Dean rubs his head and says, "Screw you, Giganto, this shit was your idea," and Sam leans up as much as he can under Dean's weight and says, "I know, I know it was, come here," and Dean meets him and kisses him again, and there between them—in the split of Dean's fly there's his dick, thick in his boxers, and Sam puts both hands to Dean's chest under his shirt and rubs over his nipples, his stomach, and then over the warm stiff pole through the cotton, catches Dean's explosion of a groan in his mouth, grips awkward, as best he can, and Dean's lips smear fat and hot over his cheek as he drags away and he whispers soft _jesus, Sammy, jesus,_ and sweaty-warm fingers peel down Sam's briefs and grab him two-handed where he's already blindingly hard. Oh, god.

Dean shifts, hits his head on the roof again, but he sits back a little with his knees tucked tight around Sam's hips, his thighs curving warm against Sam's, and they have enough space between them like that so they can move, their hands working. Dean's grip is wrong, a little too soft, but he tightens it up when Sam squeezes him, and Dean's leaking so much that Sam doesn't need a thing—god, to know that Dean gets wet like that, Sam's face is flushing up so high and bright that if they could see a damn thing back here he's sure Dean would be ragging him. Big brother, always looking for an in, and Sam's stomach rolls oddly but—but it's so good, still. He tips his face up and Dean kisses him, like it's instinct, and he picks up Dean's hand and breaks away from his mouth enough to lick his palm, sloppy-wet and hot, and he drags it back to his own dick and Dean groans and says, "Fuck, I knew you'd be a control freak," but he says it like how he used to talk to the girls Sam would hear him bring home when they were kids, a moan laced through his voice, and he squeezes Sam and jerks him right, finally, and Sam plays his fingers over the head of Dean's dick and reaches down and brushes his balls in a gentle question and feels Dean jerk from what feels like his spine, and then he settles down and grabs him warm and tight and does what feels right, his arm around Dean's shoulders, their mouths bumping and glancing against each other, and Dean's thighs squeeze around him and Sam's imagination is rocked by images he—he doesn't even know how to deal with, thoughts and insane wanting that feel like they're peeling out of some distant id he didn't know he had, and too soon he feels his stomach clamping and he feels himself swell, his balls tight, his toes curling in his boots, and then he's shooting, slicking up Dean's hand, and he drags Dean in closer, makes Dean cuss and squirm but he wants the weight, squeezes Dean's ass just to feel it, oh— _fuck_ , it feels so damn good. Dean breathes in his face, shocked, his hand slow and barely moving when Sam could, oh, he could take more—but even if his bones feel like they're melting out of his ears they're not done. He licks his lips, tries to get his shit together, and then he wipes through the mess and grabs up Dean's dick again, starts jerking him fast, slick and hard and uncompromising. "Oh," Dean says, clear, and then he curls forward, lifting up on his knees a little, his elbow on the seat, his face tucked next to Sam's. Sam kisses what he can, his jaw and his neck, breathes the sweaty good smell of him up in the curve of his shoulder, and then he—he lets go, he shifts his grip to Dean's hips and drags him in so close that his dick is rubbing wet all over Sam's belly and he says soft and quick _come on_ and Dean humps at him, dragging through the hair and hard against Sam's own muscle, and Sam pushes back and holds Dean's ass and Dean comes quick and spurting, up against Sam's skin and into his shirt, fuck, so hot Sam's dick twitches and his balls clutch, wishing they could do more.

Dean shakes, after he comes. Sam never knew that. Muscle and skin, quivering shudders, and Sam gets his hands under Dean's shirt and strokes in long pulls, feeling his back, down to his ass again, rubbing over his thighs. A deep breath, that comes out stuttered, and Dean's clean hand comes and lifts up Sam's jaw and kisses him again. Different, this time. Slow, terribly soft. Sam doesn't take over like he would with most other people—like he has already, with Dean—just lets Dean lick at his mouth and tug at his lips, and it's plush as velvet. He thinks he knows why the girls Dean leaves in the morning are always so pleased, even if they have to watch him go.

Sam doesn't have to, though. Their mouths part, and he licks his lips, feels them buzz gently with overwork. They've agreed. No matter what comes, no matter what insanity or second chances or other lives, or death. Dean pushes back, as much as he can before his head's brushing the roof, and Sam can basically only see the shine of his eyes and his lips in the last traces of light from where the sun's streaked the dome of the sky to violet. He wonders what Dean's thinking.

"My knees are killing me," Dean says. Sam snorts and Dean socks him lightly in the shoulder. "I don't want to hear a single age joke."

"My lips are sealed," Sam says, and helps Dean lift off, shuffling out of the way enough that he can plop down to the seat. Some joint does crack, like a gunshot, and Dean groans when he stretches his legs out into the footwell. Sam smiles. "Feel better?"

"That might've been better than sex," Dean says, and it's sort of light except for the way he tips his head over, and looks at Sam.

Sam's grimy, sweating into his jacket, his dick smeared and gross and Dean's come all over his stomach. He doesn't care. He leans his head onto the seat back and slips his hand over Dean's thigh, high, feeling it flex up against him. "Thanks a lot," he says, dry, and sees the gleam of Dean's teeth, if only for a second.

"Sammy," Dean says. Like it's the start of something, only he doesn't keep talking. He touches the back of Sam's hand, light, and looks away.

Sam's had sex that was wrong, that he knew even in the moment was wrong. Queasy-making, where he wishes he could wash out the inside of his skin. This isn't that. It should be, and it's not.

"There's so much—" He pauses, tries to think it through. Dean waits for him. "I didn't know. Did you?"

Dean sighs, and drags his hand over his mouth. "No. Or, not—not like, like that."

"Do you feel worse than you did this morning?" Sam says.

A huff, and Dean's hand settles on the back of Sam's, fully. Squeezing. "No. Not even close. Who knew, right. Fucking my kid brother, like a damn aspirin."

Edge of acid, there, even if his hand's warm and gripping. Sam sits up a little, puts his elbow on the back of the seat, leans in. "Don't," he says, soft, and Dean's eyelashes move in the dark. He dips in and they kiss, easy again, and Dean's mouth moves with his, his fingers curling against Sam's. "These are the people we are," he says. Close against Dean as he is, it feels like a secret between them, something no angel can hear. "All those choices, everything. Right? All of that got us here. I don't regret it, do you?"

He knows the answer before Dean says it, but it still feels good to hear. "You know I don't," Dean says, on a sigh.

"All right, then," Sam says, and Dean shivers for some reason, but he nods too. Sam drops back against the seat. He's sweating like he just ran a mile and the air in here—oh. He laughs. "Foggy night?"

The windows are all steamed. Dean shoves his knee into Sam's. "This is your fault," he says, grumbly. "Like a freakin' lookout point in high school."

"I'm not the one who chose the scenic location, you dork," Sam says, and wrestles off his jacket, and then his flannel shirt so he can use it to mop up his lap, his tender dick. He tucks himself away, and offers the shirt to Dean so he can do the same. Dean mutters something, about the laundry for some reason, and Sam feels something flickering cautiously in his chest. Hope, maybe. Something that's been in short supply, lately.

He lets Dean zip up and then he ducks in and kisses him again, just quick, testing. It feels good. Dean's hand finds the side of his neck, his thumb against Sam's jaw. "You want to sleep here tonight?" Dean says. Not a come-on, but there's a warmth to it.

Sam shakes his head. "Let's go, find a motel." He grins, thinking of it. "Hey, what are you going to say when they ask you what kind of room?"

Dean makes a disgusted noise and pushes his face away, unlatching his door. "What, you think I'm springing for the honeymoon suite?" he says, and Sam snickers, watches him get out. He gets out too, goes around to grab the cooler, the fifth they abandoned in the dead grass. "You put out once, dude, that's not honeymoon material."

Sam stretches, reaching up to the emerging stars. In just his undershirt the air prickles chilly against his arms. When he shakes his hands and finishes cracking his neck, Dean's watching him, his arms folded over the top of the car. Voice is light but his expression isn't, and Sam smiles, shrugging. "You wined and dined me, what can I say," he says, and puts his hand on the cool metal of the car. "And you made me a promise. Right?"

Dean taps his fingers on the roof, a slow rhythm. "And I'm never gonna hear the end of it," he says, but he says it like it's another promise. He looks off, out at the horizon past the lake and the trees, where smeary orange is now all that's left of the day. It's quiet, no insects chirping, no birds. Just the soft sounds of the lake, and their own breathing. Sam looks at Dean. There's always another sunset.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/183129949474/side-two-track-one)


End file.
